


Parallax

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, various other companions and characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 16:42:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3817603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is broken, bitter, dying; she is lonely and caged by duty and position. Desperation and pity and solace in unimagined places, and sometimes one's clearest reflection is in the eyes of one's enemy. Canon universe, post-trial and on; complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He'd been in worse places. The cell was bright and clean - that wasn't the problem. It was the wind, incessant and big as oceans, scouring the decrepit section of the jail and hissing through cracks in the rubble. There were other cells on the interior side, closer to Skyhold's heart, but there were a few other prisoners in there and Maker forbid anyone be too close to the dreaded former commander of the red templars, general to a darkspawn magister who would be god. Samson didn't feel like much of a threat to anyone, then, fighting the exhaustion that would cast him into crimson nightmares, the lyrium's sting and his thirst for it growing now that he was bereft of his armor. She had seen to that.

Inquisitor Trevelyan, high and mighty and a mage, sitting on her spiked throne like she was quite comfortable, like it was nothing at all. She'd frowned down at him earlier that day, weighing him. He supposed it was more than most others did, barely glancing, or staring at him like they could kill him with their eyes. Like how Cullen looked at him - like the self-righteous bastard he was, Samson thought. Trevelyan had given him into the supervision of some kind of magical advisor, to be a test subject. Surely it was going to be worse than rotting in a cell. Her Inquisition would be satisfied with nothing less.

When a pair of guards came to his cell and dragged him out, the door clanging with a typical echoing finality, Samson didn't bother asking them where they were taking him. Nowhere a prisoner was carted off to in the middle of the night, wrists in irons, could be anything but bad. More pain, natural as the mountain air he was breathing. Up the stairs to the great hall, the throne a silhouette in the moonlight, a door shoved open. Firelight spilled out across the cobbles and the guards hesitated only a moment before pushing him inside and shutting the door, leaving him alone.

Not alone.

She stood in front of a fireplace, arms folded, and barely glanced sideways at the door's slam and the clinking of his chains. Her hair was dark auburn and the fire made it truly red - an irony, his body's need for lyrium sending a dull, throbbing pain through his stomach.

"What is this?" His voice came out hoarse, lifeless. "You mean to kill me out of sight of your advisors and your devotees?"

"If I intended to kill you, I'd've done it at Mythal." Trevelyan turned then. She studied him again, brow furrowed.

He mustered a scowl but was too tired to make it quite as effective as he'd have liked, and said nothing.

She shook her head and sighed. "I told Leliana not to bother," she muttered, stepping closer to him until she was an arm's length away. Instinct told him to back up but he refused, some last attempt at strength. "Don't move," she said

Trevelyan grabbed one of the manacles that bound his wrists and the metal lit blue-white beneath her fingertips, sudden cold burning his skin. That chill was almost a relief, with the lyrium and its hunger running hot through his veins. With a sharp crack the metal broke, releasing one of his wrists. Samson stared down at her as she took the other cuff and froze that as well, her face an intent frown as she used her magic. He shivered.

The involuntarily motion made the splitting metal sting more than the first cuff had, and he flinched though it was scarcely enough pain to register past the cloud of the rest of it that followed him.

"Oh - I'm sorry." She looked up at him, her eyes wide. Grey eyes. She had a subtle dark violet tattoo of dots and lines at the corner of her left eye that he hadn't gotten a good look at before; idly he wondered what its significance was. Her cool fingers brushed along his wrist as she checked for any injury. "I didn't mean to hurt you. They didn't give me the key. You'd think the Inquisitor would have all the keys," she added with a faint chuckle, but her hands lingered, her expression darkening.

"S'nothing," he mumbled. It wasn't. Well, the tiny pain was nothing, but this bizarre situation, her gentleness, and, Maker, when was the last time anyone had been gentle with -

"I wanted to speak with you," she said, dropping his hand and half-turning back toward the fire.

Samson cleared his throat. Of course. "Thought the Nightingale or your pretty commander would be here for an interrogation."

"There's not going to be an interrogation. The Inquisition has all the information it needs from you." She paused. "I don't."

"You are the Inquisition."

"And were you the red templars? Were you not separate from them, with your own goals and hopes and fears and - " Trevelyan took another step away and faced the fireplace. "You said you gave your people hope, not despair. But you knew the truth - knew there was no real hope for them, only darkness in the end."

"They needed it from somebody. My men had been used, thrown out like filth, I -" He gritted his teeth. _I know how that feels._ "You do it, too. You might as well be Andraste, the way your people look at you."

"I know. I know I do the same thing. What choice do I have?" Quiet, bitter. "Is that what it is to lead? To give the people around you something to believe, something to fight for, while you yourself have no light to follow?" She turned toward him. "I'd barely woken from nearly dying trying to close the Breach and already they were calling me the Herald of Andraste, the only hope, the only one who can close rifts. It didn't matter that I never felt anyone save me, that I just woke up in the dust with this." She held up her hand, brilliant green sparking in it and fading again. "Still doesn't matter that I've never felt the Maker's help or heard his voice. That I was saved by a spirit who admired Justinia and not by the Maker's prophet. That this mark is as much Corypheus' creation as you were. And you were the one chosen, at least by a would-be god - I'm an accident."

"Turned out better for you." He swallowed hard, uneasy, uncertain. Old templar training he'd long spurned ran through his head, words from the Chant whispered by guttering candlelight. Meaningless.

"So far. I've still got to defeat an ancient darkspawn magister and his might-as-well-be-an-archdemon dragon. A blighted god for a blighted world. A broken world." Trevelyan ran her hand over her face.

"What do you want from me?" It came out harsher than he'd really intended, like everything he did, and he glanced down after he said it.

"Most of them want me to have you tortured," she said. "Or exiled alone in the wilderness, somewhere you could stumble into the Deep Roads. Cullen said that way you could hope to die like a warden, since you won't die like a templar."

Samson's lip curled. It sounded like something Cullen would say. There was anger beneath that polished righteous surface. Always had been. "And kill people when the lyrium takes me in the end. A little shortsighted of your commander."

"So why do you think I chose what I did, to have Dagna study you?"

_Because apparently I don't deserve to be treated any better than a beast or a slave_. He resented it, yet couldn't bring himself to disagree with the thought. "I can't read your mind, Inquisitor."

"My name is Ygraine." The softness of her voice contrasted sharply with his. "I've given you to her because she's probably the smartest and kindest person here. If anyone can learn from the lyrium in you and figure out how to stop it from it killing you, or anyone else, it's her."

A scoffing noise caught in his throat, but he still didn't meet her eyes. "Not possible."

"We're going to try."

"Why?" He was confused, tired, the red singing in the back of his mind. "Is this supposed to be mercy? Pity? I haven't asked for that. I don't have..."

"Samson."

He looked up then, the strange kindness on her face twisting in him sharp as any knife.

A heavy knock on the door interrupted her. "You'll be staying in a room, not a cell," she said. "It's tiny and you'll have a guard outside, but for now it's the best I can do. A ration of lyrium - blue, but more red would just kill you faster. I'm sorry. I'm..."

The guards returned for him, but before they could take him by the arms, Trevelyan raised her hand to stop them. She leaned forward toward his ear so only he could hear her, and he swore he could feel her breath ghost across his skin. She hesitated, then drew back and said nothing, gesturing to the guards to proceed. She'd turned back to the fire, the edges of her hair a scarlet halo, by the time the guards led him out into the hall and its darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Ygraine Trevelyan felt emptied out and pulled in a thousand different directions. Solas had called her a friend then started talking like he was either planning on dying in their final battle, or abandoning the Inquisition when the dust settled. Dorian was talking about Tevinter's future, dreams, hopes - another looking to her as an example of what he could be. Morrigan lurked and listened to the new voices in her head, preoccupied but planning. Trevelyan's favored traveling companions were off as well - Sera's usual brash attitude turned moody, Cassandra pondering the Seekers' fate, the Iron Bull facing his future outside the Qun. Even Leliana seemed like she was moving on, already planning her inevitable tenure as Divine - since she had the Inquisition's support. Cullen was distracted, and Trevelyan wasn't sure whether it was the upcoming fight, his ongoing struggle without lyrium, or their new prisoner. Perhaps everything was weighing on him too much, as it was on her.

The red templar general was no small contributor to her own troubled mind. It was strange, hunting someone from a distance, relentless as she always was, and finding that her quarry was not what she'd expected. The letters she'd found in Sahrnia's scarlet hell, the self-sacrifice of Maddox and red templars at Dumat's shrine, Cullen's recollections. Samson had been kind, Cullen had said, though he discounted that as no longer relevant. It made Trevelyan wonder. It wasn't Corypheus those men at Dumat had died for - that thought reminded her of Morrigan's suggestion that her own people invoked their Inquisitor and not Andraste on the field of battle.

_Some prophets we are._

Trevelyan nodded at the people congregating in the great hall, all soft smiles and serenity for them as she headed for the undercroft. There was work to do, preparation for confronting Corypheus. She sighed as she walked down the steps, breathing the cool air tinged with metal and smoke, hammers' songs ringing. Harritt was there with several apprentices. In the back corner was Dagna and a table full of bizarre tools, the dwarf on her tiptoes to examine the hunched, seated figure slumped in front of her.

Samson looked up then, like he could tell Trevelyan was watching him. He was so pale, most of the whites of his ice-blue eyes turned red as blood, but it was the haunted look that flitted across his face that made something tighten in her chest.

"Your gear's pretty well done with, Inquisitor," said Harritt, gesturing to some deep blue light armor on a table. "Darkspawn bastard'll have a hard time hurting you in that."

"Thank you, Harritt." Her fingertips ran along wyvern hide and tendrilled silk and gleaming stormheart. It was the shining blue barriers she cast expertly as reflex that kept her the safest, but a bit of armor was definitely appreciated. As she examined it, she could feel the former general's eyes on her from across the room, watching her from under dark, downcast lashes. "What about Bloodwake?"

"I think Dagna wrapped up work on that rune you asked for, but you'd have to check with her." The smith eyed the arcanist and her tools with suspicion, and Trevelyan laughed.

"Oh, don't be frightened. I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to run if she accidentally sets something on fire."

"Accidentally?"

"...well, you know."

He sniffed, and when he spoke again it was at a lower volume. "'Sides, it's not her I'm worried about. The red one makes my people nervous. And me. Not ashamed to admit it."

Trevelyan nodded. "I understand. The apprentices will adjust in time. Set an example for them, would you? The Maker wishes us to be merciful even to the lowest among us, does he not?"

"Of course, Inquisitor." Harritt didn't look convinced, and Trevelyan could not blame him.

She approached Dagna and Samson, who was now gazing blankly at the floor. "How are things going, Dagna? Have you learned anything so far?"

"Inquisitor!" Dagna's voice was bright as sunshine, as always, and she held a vial of red liquid in her heavily-gloved hands. "So much! Well, not anything, really, not anything I can use - at least I'm not sure whether I can use it or not yet. But I'm sure I've learned something. I must have, right? Have you seen his blood, Inquisitor? It's so pretty!"

"I..." Trevelyan stared at the vial that Dagna thrust up into her line of sight. It seemed to glow in the sunlight, crystalline specks glinting within. "It's certainly - "

"I know, right? Really something. Deadly poison, but it sure is beautiful."

Trevelyan glanced down at Samson, silent and still. "Dagna, would you mind giving me a moment? I'm sure he could use a break."

"All right." The dwarf frowned for a second, then perked up. "Time for a cocoa, I think." She walked off, chirping something about the burning point of chocolate, and Trevelyan sat on the floor beside the templar.

"How are you?" She tilted her head to catch his gaze.

"Does it matter?" His voice was quiet enough that she had to lean closer. "Dwarf's a better jailer than I expected, I'll give you that."

"Good. And yes, it matters."

A muscle in his cheek twitched, and she noticed how tightly his hands were folded in his lap, how they trembled despite that. He was so thin, the sharp line of his nose making his cheeks look even more sunken.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

Samson shook his head. "There's bad and not-as-bad days. Not so different from being cut off cold from the blue, before. In Kirkwall. Doesn't make it any easier, but..." He shrugged.

Trevelyan thought of Cullen's experience. "What about nightmares?"

He snorted. "What about them? I'm always in one, in the back of my mind, it's just worse when I try to sleep."

"I've got some potions Solas made me, after I fought the Nightmare demon in the Fade. They help, some." She winced. "I still have bad dreams a fair amount, but I suppose that's normal given what I deal with on a daily basis, right? And they're not as bad as they were. I can part with a few bottles, and ask Solas to make more."

"Can't ask you to do that," Samson muttered, eyes downcast.

"You didn't. Besides, I want to." She rose to her feet, but he did not move or look up at her. "I'll see you soon," she offered quietly.

As she went out the undercroft door, she almost walked directly into Dagna and her steaming tankard of hot cocoa.

"Oh, Inquisitor, your staff is all set, too!" Dagna grinned. "A nice shiny cleansing rune. I love how new runes smell, don't you? Also I refined how I make corrupting runes based off what I've learned from our grumpy friend."

"Dagna," Trevelyan sighed as she caught her balance. "How is he?"

Dagna shrugged. "He doesn't do anything. Doesn't talk or anything, he just scowls or just... stares, you know? He's really broken. It's kind of sad, don't you think?"

"Oh. That's... not surprising." She rubbed her temple. "Thank you, though."

"You're welc... wait, for what, the rune?"

"That too. And for having compassion."

"No problem, Inquisitor." She smiled brightly. "Well, back to work!"

Trevelyan ran a hand through her hair, slipped on a calm, pious expression, and headed back through the crowd in the great hall.


	3. Chapter 3

Days passed and became weeks. The red's power within him lessened, sharp initial pangs turning to the dull ache of the long hungry. Blue lyrium helped somewhat, but it wasn't the same thing, not at all, and Samson knew that inside him the red was still slowly spreading, still killing him. The dwarf was obnoxiously cheerful but did him no real harm, at least. He could make no sense of what she was trying to look at or whether she'd made any progress, however.

He still wasn't sure whether or not he wanted it to succeed.

What broke up the endless hours were the occasional visits from the Inquisitor herself. Samson didn't know what to think of her, of her intentions, of the truth of what she was now that they were not facing staff to greatsword. She was treating him respectfully, kindly. Things simple as having one of her associates bring him potions - a bald elf who'd looked at Samson the way one would look at a piece of architecture, or a rock. Once, Samson had finished with Dagna for the day and been escorted back to his quarters to find a book sitting on the tiny table. Some kind of novel about a dragon-hunter, with a note tucked inside the front cover.

_I read this a couple years ago & really enjoyed it - thought you might like something to pass the time._

_-Y._

The confusion of it almost made him feel ill. He could not deny that part of him was starving for kindness, for care, for things he refused to form into coherent thoughts. But every experience had taught him that there was no such thing, not for him. It had to be some kind of trick or game, or else the same courtesy she gave to everyone. The strange look in her eyes, he was imagining or misunderstanding. Any alternative was impossible, especially from her. Maker, he'd hated her from a distance - hated what he thought she was. Perhaps this new image was another lie.

One evening, refusing to attempt sleep, thumbing through the first few pages of the book for want of anything better to do, a knock came at the door of his small quarters. The door opened and a soldier peered in - not one of Samson's usual guards, he noted.

"The Inquisitor wishes to speak with you, if you would oblige," she said, her tone a practiced neutral. One of the Nightingale's people, then.

Samson shrugged, got up and followed her. Skyhold was such a different place at night - it almost felt like the ruin he'd heard it had been before the Inquisition's arrival, at least until they passed the tavern. He winced at the warm light, the laughter, but his guide did not even glance toward it. She led him up stairs and through a back corridor, down into a space he'd not yet seen. A garden, lush and silent in the moonlight, sheltered from mountain winds. The air smelled faintly sweet.

"Thank you, Baker," came her voice from behind him. "That will be all."

"My lady." The agent bowed and slipped away.

Samson turned. Trevelyan stood there in a tree's deep shadow, covered in a simple dark cloak collared in fur.

"It's so beautiful here, don't you think?" she murmured, looking past him.

Something in his chest ached. "Not my area of expertise," he muttered.

"What, beauty?" She laughed, but it was gentle, not mocking. "Not mine, either. Now, lightning bolts or the proper size of a fire mine spell, that I can talk about." Her smile faded, and she cleared her throat. "So, I trust you've noticed the increase in activity here in Skyhold lately?"

He had. Soldiers shoring up fortifications, whispering to one another, damnable Cullen marching around hurling orders. Forces were still trickling back in from the Arbor Wilds, but he figured the majority had returned. "Preparing for a siege? Corypheus has no forces to mount one, now. You've seen to that."

"No, there won't be a siege. There will be a battle. The last one." Trevelyan sighed. "He'll draw me out, I think. Any day now."

He frowned. "And you expect to win?"

"I..." She glanced away, and immediately he regretted his words. "I'd assumed you did not hope for his victory, considering. You did say he'd kill you on sight."

"I don't - that came out wrong. I don't hope for it, not anymore. I was only thinking of... the odds."

"Oh." A bitter smile twisted her lips. "Did you know that Varric and Dorian have a bet going? I'm fairly certain Dorian's betting against me, though he's as true a friend as I have. I can't say I blame him."

"...and he'd collect his winnings how?"

Her expression softened. "He's a necromancer like me. He'd think of something."

"Right."

"But I'm just..." She wrapped her arms around herself. "I'm afraid. I'm so afraid, Samson. I'm scared that I'll fail everyone. That I'll die and... and all my friends, everything my people have fought and died for..."

Samson bowed his head, unsure what she wanted from him, unsure what he ought to say. He thought of the templars who'd looked to him with hope stained red, melting into madness. His friend Maddox, made hollow, unable to feel the emotions that had made him break the rules in the first place, choosing to die. The conflict within Samson grated, infuriated. He could not trust her, could not begin to think that... could not begin to...

"Please." Trevelyan touched his arm. "You're the only one who can understand." Tentatively her hand slipped down to take his, her fingers cold. "I-"

Something in him snapped. He yanked his hand back and grabbed her by the shoulders, shoving her backward against the tree behind her. "Stop." He hated the pleading whine in his voice, the hunger. "Stop this... whatever it is. Manipulating me. I'm already your prisoner. What more do you want from me?"

"Is that what you think?" She winced, but her gaze held his steadily. Her body felt calm in his grip, unafraid. "You really think this is some kind of game, that I'm risking everyone's approval for... what? Pretending to care? Mental torture?"

"What else?"

"Because I genuinely do! I sympathize and you're-"

His jaw tightened. "I told you I don't want your pity. Guilt or... or whatever you want to call it. Maker, you're the Inquisitor."

"I know I'm -"

"How can you expect me to believe that you'd give a shit about me?" His hands were shaking, whatever anger he'd felt bled out of him. He should not have been rough with her, should not be holding onto her now, but his desperation for contact kept his hands in place. "Like we're... like we're kindred spirits or something. Do you know how mad that sounds?"

She was silent for a moment, and the sad look in her eyes was unbearable. "I understand why you don't believe me, but it's still true."

"Even if it were, why would..." Samson's head lowered. "I am a dying shell being eaten up by red lyrium from the inside. A monster with bloody hands."

Trevelyan reached toward her shoulder and grabbed his wrist. He didn't resist as she withdrew his hand and placed it at the base of her throat, holding it there with both her hands for a moment. She let her hands drop and tilted her head back a little. "Is that really what you are, down in the core of you?" Challenge crept into her tone. "Are you angry because you want to harm me? We are completely alone. If there's truly no good in you, you'd take advantage of that."

Even the soft skin of her neck felt cool to his touch, heated as he was from lyrium. His breath hitched as he mindlessly slid his hand up the column of her throat. He could feel her pulse quicken beneath his fingertips.

"No," he said hoarsely. He let his hand drop, let her go. "I... I don't want to hurt you anymore. I don't..." Turning his head, he took a step back. He felt like he was drowning. "I don't understand. I don't know how to respond to... this."

"Neither do I." She drew nearer and reached out her hand, ran her fingers gently down his cheek. For a moment he closed his eyes, swallowing hard.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

She slid her hand to the back of his head, leaned up and kissed him, feather-light and delicate and gone in a moment. He was paralyzed, unable to respond, heart pounding in his ears as she drew back. A sad half-smile flitted across her face, and she turned and vanished into the darkness.

Samson stood there in a daze until Baker returned for him, and could barely remember walking back to his chamber after having returned there. He laid on his back in the dark, staring at the ceiling, as conflicting emotions tangled and choked him like thorns.


	4. Chapter 4

Victory. It felt unreal, even with all the faith of the people behind her, even as the literal dust settled and she descended from the broken peak Corypheus had wrought. Returning to Skyhold was even more dreamlike. Cheers and smiles, shouts of joy, the crowd waiting for her with such exhilarated happiness that it made her feel drunk. All of her friends were among them - except Solas, whose absence even Leliana could not do anything about. It left a gap like the emptiness before a storm's first growl. Samson was not in the crowd, either. She wondered if he would have been, if he'd been free to make that choice.

Trevelyan felt naive and foolish about what was going on with her interest in the red templar, but something about him and his life moved her in a way that no one else's did. Her dark inverse reflection, a tragedy she could not look away from. Nearly anyone would condemn her, turn from her in disgust and misunderstanding - it was fuel to topple her, a fate Vivienne had warned her of more than once.

Still Trevelyan wandered further down the path to what would surely be heartbreak at best. Perhaps it was an unconscious desire for self-destruction, or some trace of the rebellion she'd never fully expressed, as member of a neutral Circle and then submitter to the role circumstances had given her. She'd heard the whispers that Cullen was such a nice man and wouldn't it be lovely if the Inquisitor and he were to be together. She liked Cullen very much - a mutual feeling, she believed - and he was a respected colleague and friend, but certain differences of opinion and perspective separated them. This folly, though, this madness... it was pity, despite her denials, pity and loneliness and the desire to connect with someone who could understand the pressures and struggles she dealt with. As much as she loved all her friends, there was a level of her they could never understand.

Trevelyan spent the feast in the great hall floating between her friends and prominent Inquisition members like a ghost, smiling while her head was spinning, drinking not nearly enough to make her forget herself. Sera was already talking about her next venture, while Dorian had decided to stay for the time being and seemed quite happy to pay up to Varric after losing their bet. The rest were similar, chatting about the future but not entirely ready to part from the Inquisition. Leliana was the only one other than Solas who would definitely be leaving, once her appointment as Divine was finalized.

The Nightingale stopped Trevelyan as she wandered listlessly by a table of steaming platters of food. She tilted her head, but said nothing.

"It's always safest to assume you know everything about everything, right?" Trevelyan said quietly.

"I did not instruct Baker to observe you, if that's what you mean. Inference suffices in this case."

"I can't tell you how much I appreciate your discretion, Leliana."

"Of course." One corner of her mouth quirked into a smile. "I must say, I hadn't expected you to take my comments about the Maker's mercy and unconditional love so to heart."

"Yes, I suppose I... well."

"Those of us with so much blood on our hands cannot fully condemn others in the same situation, no? I understand that, of course. The rest, the depth of it, is... unwise, however."

"I know that," Trevelyan said, swallowing the last of her wine.

"I will do all I can to protect you, now and as Divine. If things manage to... unravel beyond our ability to control, there are many justifications I can employ. You needn't fear in that regard."

Trevelyan frowned. "I won't jeopardize the Inquisition. You know that, right?"

Leliana smiled. "Anything and everything jeopardizes it, depending on who you're speaking to. I will watch over that as always." She half-bowed. "Enjoy the celebration, Inquisitor. It is for you."

The next hour was spent in endless conversations, questions about the exact details of Corypheus' defeat, speculations, requests for political favors. Trevelyan navigated through it in an increasingly uncomfortable haze. She felt more removed from everyone than ever. Finally she managed to excuse herself for a supposed bit of rest in her chambers, but slipped out through the lower door to the vast cellar and out into the night.

Skyhold's courtyard was filled with revelers as well, but out of their bonfires' light she wasn't noticed or recognized. She wanted quiet and considered going up onto the battlements, but the night was chilly and more than quiet she wanted to feel connection. Her feet led her to the door of Samson's quarters - unguarded, a fact she silently thanked Leliana for. She'd been there once, to leave him a book, but he hadn't been there at the time. Taking a breath, she knocked, then opened the door and went in without waiting for a response..

He was sitting on the edge of his bed in the moonlit half-dark, his head in his hands. Looking up at the sudden intrusion, his expression turned from surprise to shock as he realized who it was.

"I made it," she said. Her hands were trembling with nerves. "He's dead."

"Yes." Samson cleared his throat. "I heard everyone out there. I'm... glad."

"So am I." She took a step closer, and noticed a dark bruise high on one of his cheekbones. "Maker, what happened?" she asked.

"It's nothing."

"That's not nothing." Trevelyan drew within an arm's length and touched it gingerly. He was so warm, like fever beneath her fingertips. He grimaced a little but if anything leaned slightly into her touch.

"A kid threw some rocks the other day on my way to the undercroft. Good aim. Young eyes, you know." He shrugged. "I wouldn't expect differently."

"I'm sorry." She stroked his cheek idly, her chest tightening at the way his breath hitched.

He swallowed. "You... you sure you wandered into the right templar's quarters?" His voice was hoarse, cracking.

"I'm sorry," she murmured again, and she cradled his face in both hands. Her eyes stung. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry about your men, and Maddox, and that I didn't find you and know you before Corypheus did. About everything before that. What the order did to you. I wish that..." Everything she'd been through in the past few weeks weighed on her at once, and her vision blurred behind tears. "I wish I could... I just wish..." She shook her head, a few tears spilling over. "I just feel so alone."

He reached up and wiped her cheeks, awkward, hesitant, his hands rough and warm. "You're not," he whispered, a starving, sad look in his eyes. "But I-"

She leaned down and kissed him, hard, the garden's lightness and hesitation abandoned. The heat of him was startling against her lips, fire on delicate skin, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and let herself forget everything else. He shuddered as she deepened the kiss, and finally responded to her, one hand running down her back and the other buried in her hair. His fingers snagged on a snarl and it pulled, but that little pain only made a soft moan well in her throat and she caught his lower lip gently in her teeth then let it go, losing herself in a deep kiss until they were both nearly panting for breath. She straddled his seated frame on the edge of the bed, pausing to breathe, her pulse quickening at the way he groaned as she sank onto his lap.

"Are... are you sure?" he asked hoarsely.

Trevelyan lightly gripped his chin, made him look at her. "Are you?"

He kissed her then, a slow attempt at gentleness that made her ache. It was strange how secure being in his arms felt, such warmth and roughness, his body too thin from lyrium and strain but still strong. He was not handsome, but she liked his sharp wolfish features, his dark-fringed blue eyes, the way his hair curled at the edges and seemed constantly in need of trimming. The fact that he was nearly twice her age had barely registered - something too mundane to be concerned about compared to his darkness, his red.

She wanted him, despite everything, because of everything.

Carefully he rolled her off of him, setting her on the bed beside him. For a moment he lingered, pressing kisses along her neck and jawline, then he fumbled at her shirt's buttons and clasps, his fingers trembling. She took over, slipping everything off down to her simple smallclothes. He seemed almost embarrassed as he slid off his clothes, eyes downcast. She swallowed hard as she took in the many scattered scars across his skin, the lean muscles, the ribs too close to the surface. Gently she traced wounds old and recently healed, a few spots warmer than the rest and reddened like the poison killing him was just beneath. She softly kissed a scar above his heart, over his ribs, along his side and downward, then returned up to kiss his neck and the soft spot by his ear.

"You don't have to," he whispered.

"What?"

"Be so... nice." His hand slid along the side of her neck. "I've never had..." He shook his head and kissed her, leaning them over until she was on her back. She laced her fingers in his hair as his hands ran down her breasts and ribs.

Then he stopped and pulled back, drawing a moan of protest from her as he stood. The sudden absence made her feel cold, and an irrational fear gripped her. "What's wrong?"

He knelt on the floor before her, reaching up to grasp her hips and pull her toward him until her legs dangled off the edge of the bed. Anticipation reared sharply in her, quickening her breath and heartbeat as he began to kiss along her hipbone and lower stomach.

"You don't have to do that either, Samson," she hissed.

His brow furrowed. "Do you want me to st-"

"No," she said too forcefully, "that's not what I mean at all, just... only if it's what you want, too."

He chuckled softly, a sound she'd never heard from him and one that made something twinge inside her. With awkward fingers he slid off her smallclothes and settled with her legs over his shoulders, kissing only up to her inner thighs until she was arcing her back and groaning in frustration and eagerness. When he finally moved to kiss the core of her, he was awkward at first but soon became comfortable, confident, the heat and roughness and pressure building tension within her until she could barely stand it. Her hands clenched into fists in the sheets, her head tossed back.

In the fragmented and distracted mess of her thoughts came the image of herself on her spiked throne, Samson before her, half of Thedas recoiling from her. Everyone was still in the hall and here she was, open and taking all she could from the man they despised, the one who'd served the would-be god whose death they were celebrating. The contradiction of it only fed her desire, her heels digging into his back, her whole body bowstring-tense.

Release came like a crash, sensation shooting up her spine and sending involuntary little spasms through her body until she was trembling, reeling. Her gasping breaths gradually slowed, her head falling to the side, content but not sated. "Get up here," she demanded breathlessly.

He climbed up beside her, his own breath ragged, and she smiled softly as she saw that he'd clearly enjoyed pleasing her. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled him down into a kiss that was deep and messy and a little frantic, reveling in his slightly swollen lips. He moved until he was half on top of her, that weight a comforting feeling.

"Can I...?" There was still disbelief in his eyes, and it hurt to see it.

"Yes." She spread her hips a little wider and caressed his cheek, then leaned up a little until she could whisper in his ear. "I want you. You and no one else."

A faint noise like a growl caught in his throat and he pushed her down, and after a brief taut moment of anticipation he entered her in a single sharp motion. He exhaled and began to move, everything he did magnified by her already sensitive body. She arched and moved beneath him, her nails dragging along his back until he pinned her arms above her head with one hand. The restraint only made her rock her hips harder with her need to touch him.

"Maker," he murmured, kissing her neck and biting lightly at her delicate skin. She wondered if it would leave marks and wickedly hoped that it would, moaning at the mix of pain and rich, rhythmic sensation.

His pace quickened and it didn't take long to send her over the edge again, this time a heavier, slower feeling running from spine to toes and fingertips and leaving her exhausted. He could not endure long beyond that and he moaned brokenly against her neck as he came, loosening his grip on her wrists, his body trembling.

Their breathing slowed together in the quiet, tired aftermath, and he carefully moved to lay beside her, stroking her cheek with a shy, sad expression. She curled against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her.

After a few minutes, he sighed. "Bet they're all wondering where you are. I..." His lips brushed her forehead, startlingly gentle. "Please don't go yet," he whispered.

It broke her heart. "Samson..." She kissed his stubbled cheek and cuddled closer to him. "I want to be with you. I'm not going anywhere until right before dawn."

Silently he held her tighter, and she closed her eyes as she listened to his heartbeat. Her last thought before she fell asleep was that she felt safer than she had in a long, long time.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Samson woke in the dim grey light of early morning, curled around an empty space. He'd have thought it had been a dream, except he could still smell her on his sheets - cool mountain air and the barest hint of blood lotus. He missed her with the intensity he'd only associated with lyrium deprivation before, and he didn't know what to think of that fact. He felt hollow and somehow older, felt like he'd been broken apart and reformed into a shape he couldn't understand.

The day continued with the same monotony as always, like nothing had ever happened. Tests in the undercroft, silent hours in his chambers. He only saw her once, cream and dark scarlet across the great hall, his heart in his throat. She was talking with Cullen and a few of his captains, and Samson felt a little smug at the knowledge that beneath Trevelyan's prim collar were soft, blossoming red marks he'd left. Cullen would die of horror. She met his eyes for the briefest of moments, until his guards nudged him along and he was deprived of her again.

For the next two days, he didn't see her at all.

Familiar doubts began to creep in. Perhaps it had only been the wine that had broken through her reserve. Perhaps he'd merely been used - though there'd been such sincerity to her, even his jaded mind found that thought hard to believe. Perhaps it would never happen again.

The following day he was sitting by the arcanist's table being poked and prodded as usual, and he decided he didn't have the energy to be annoyed with Dagna anymore.

"You're not such a bad laboratory nug, you know," the dwarf chirped, igniting a dish of his blood until it hissed with acrid smoke. She sprinkled a mix of elfroot and herbs he didn't recognize into the dish like some weird potion. "I'm going to talk to Leliana. You've been so good, she should loosen your leash a little, don't you think? Maybe library visits? Gardening? Lace says it's good for your soul - can't test that, though. Not yet, anyway." Dagna glanced up and smiled. "Oh, hello, Inquisitor!"

Immediately his pulse quickened and he turned to see Trevelyan standing there, almost close enough to touch. She looked tired, and the sight of her made the stirrings of resentment he'd felt vanish into hunger and a tight heaviness in his chest.

He hated it. He wouldn't have traded it for anything.

"Any progress?" she asked, not looking at him.

"Of course! Well, sort of." Dagna went off on some long explanation that he tuned out, tearing his gaze from Trevelyan. He nearly jumped when Dagna yanked at his collar to show Trevelyan a spot on his upper back.

"His resistances are getting to their limits in some places, I think," Dagna said. "See how red? It's not solid - I can't cut it out - but it's sort of pooling. Weird, huh?"

Trevelyan pressed his skin lightly with her cool fingertips, and his breath caught in his lungs. "Does it hurt?" she asked softly, her touch lingering.

He shrugged. He didn't trust his voice, not when he wasn't alone with her.

She let her hand drop and he exhaled. "Dagna, may I speak with you privately?"

"Sure!" The two of them left without another glance from Trevelyan. They were gone for some time and he glanced up sharply when Dagna returned, but she was alone. He could feel his heart sink like a stone, and he cursed himself.

"Hey," Dagna said, tilting her head to look at him. "You know I'm going to figure this out, right?"

He cleared his throat. "I don't know about that, but it seems like you're trying pretty hard. Don't know why."

"Because, silly." She smiled brightly. "It's the right thing to do, and important research, too." Dagna leaned closer and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. "And if it makes the Inquisitor happy, well, that makes me happy. Not that it takes much to make me happy, but, you know." She poked him in the arm. "Now sit up straighter! We've got more to do."

The afternoon continued as expected until he was being marched back to his quarters, when a different guard switched with his usual one halfway across the courtyard.

"Sister Nightingale's orders," the man said. "Questioning."

His guard shrugged and let the new one take over - Samson was then led not to his chambers but into the depths of the stronghold, down a half-crumbling passage to a section of a tower that was still under repair. Walking ahead of the agent, he stopped at a closed door and turned to see what he ought to do, only to find that he was alone. Frowning, he pushed open the heavy, creaking door.

It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the damp darkness, and the first thing he saw was red. Trevelyan was sitting on the edge of a dusty chest of drawers and she hopped down the moment she saw him. She flung her arms around him, squeezing him so tight it nearly knocked the wind from his lungs.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled into the crook of his neck. "I couldn't get away and... Maker, it's so hard to see you and not be able to do anything."

He sighed and embraced her, burying his face in her soft, dark red hair. "It's all right. I... it was a difficult night for you and I thought it might've just been - "

"Shut up." She leaned up and kissed him hard enough to hurt, teeth clicking, her tongue cool in comparison to his fire. He wanted to devour her, wished it hurt more. When she finally pulled back, he was lightheaded. "I don't have long," she said. "I have to leave. Venatori doing Maker knows what in the Wastes - even with their master dead. I'm going with my usual team, plus Dorian, and scouts ahead and soldiers behind."

He felt ill. "How long?"

"A few weeks, I expect, but there's no way to know exactly." She stroked his cheek. "I'll write to you."

"That's not dangerous?"

"I trust Leliana completely - she'll handle it for us. You can trust her, too." She sighed, smiling though there was sadness in her grey eyes. "I knew I wanted to know you, but... I can't say I expected things to - for me to feel like this."

He cradled her face in his hands, doing his best to be gentle though it did not come naturally to him. "You should hate me." He kissed her, softly, his stomach turning. "I should hate you, too." He kissed her again, a little harder. "Can't remember how."

A faint whimper caught in her throat and she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, moving him forward until her back hit the wall. 


	6. Chapter 6

Samson was finishing his small noonday meal in a corner of the undercroft when an agent silently set a slip of paper in front of him. He ought to have put it in his pocket, looked at it later, but it had been a week and his addict's heart missed her enough to hurt. His fingers trembled as he unrolled it - the paper smelled of smoke and dust.

_All's well. V. agents after some kind of dwarven treasure, should be interesting. Ever been to the Wastes? So vast. Moon's so big, silver shield over the dunes. Wish you could see it. Hope you're well, let me know. All my affection, Y._

He read it until he had it memorized.

"Hey. What've you got there?"

Samson glanced up to see one of Harritt's apprentices, a rather bulky young man. Some other apprentices watched from a few paces back; Samson noted that Harritt was nowhere to be seen, and neither was his benevolently mad keeper Dagna. "Business," he shrugged.

"You're a prisoner. You don't have business."

Samson smiled, brain clicking into a half-conscious, instinctive stock-taking. Ten of them, fire and tongs and hammers, a fork and dull knife. Several months before he could have destroyed them easily as a tornado through straw; no longer, and he hadn't tested his abilities recently so he had no way of knowing just how weakened he was. In any case, he'd face certain punishment if he so much as touched one of Skyhold's fine citizens. Samson stood, pleased to find himself a little taller than the apprentice, and dropped the note into a nearby brazier.

"Oh really?" The apprentice took a step closer. "You've got quite the attitude, red filth."

A different apprentice cleared his throat. "I wouldn't, Willem. That was one of the Left Hand's people, before. I'm sure it's all fine."

"None of this is fine," the first young man snapped. "Floor's slippery down here, don't you think? Be easy to take a tumble." He pointed his chin toward the great open back of the undercroft.

"Yes, it would." Everyone turned at the sudden, bell-clear female voice, to see Leliana herself standing in the undercroft doorway. She stepped downward with her usual smooth predator's gait, and the apprentices visibly recoiled.

"Sister Nightingale," the young man sputtered, bowing his head. "This man - "

" - is our ward, and as any repentant, cooperative captive, is to be treated civilly and with mercy." She smiled, polite as a dagger in a jeweled sheath. "Wouldn't you agree?"

The apprentice said nothing.

"Samson," she said, turning to him, "would you kindly accompany me?"

 _Out of the frying pan..._ He followed her out of the undercroft without a word, through the great hall and into an odd muralled room, up staircases through a library to what was apparently Skyhold's rookery.

"Come," she said. "Fresh air will do us good." She led him out onto a balcony that overlooked the grand courtyard and the battlements, thin clouds flitting across the pale blue sky.

"Thank you," he muttered, unsure of what to say or do.

"I'm quite sure you could have defended yourself against such headstrong, green boys, but that would be unwise, no?" Her face was shaded by a grey-violet hood. "You have much to lose. Interesting, to find oneself in such a position, after believing one has lost everything there was to lose."

"She..." Samson hesitated. "She says I can trust you. You must know everything, then."

"You can - and I know enough. It would be too much to say that I approve, but I do understand." She glanced at him. "The Inquisitor is a dear friend. She is strong, but she also has a gentle heart." Leliana faced him fully. "Do you love her? Or, if not yet, do you think you could?"

He stared at her, startled. The word was so foreign to him he hadn't even considered using it as a label for whatever he was going through. After a long time, he said softly, "I... think I want to try."

Leliana smiled, genuine this time, not like the undercroft's threat. "I am to be the next Divine, did you know? When my appointment is confirmed, as soon as the most immediate business is addressed, I intend to pardon you." She nodded once, firmly. "Ygraine does not know."

Samson felt dizzy. "Why would you ever even - the people would turn on you. I'm a monster to them." _I_ am _a monster._

"No. You will be an example of the power of the Maker's forgiveness and love for all. A fractured saint for a new world, should you survive the lyrium."

He snorted. "And if I don't?"

"Then you will be the first martyr of my time as Divine." She turned her head, gazing out over the courtyard. "You must understand, mercy only has power when the sin is great. And I want the people to understand mercy."

"Didn't expect the spymaster to be an idealist."

"All great spymasters are idealists, Samson. Ideals are what give me the power to strike when I must, and the restraint not to strike when I must not. They give me the reassurance that my actions are righteous."

He frowned. Trevelyan did not have Leliana's pure conviction; he found that comforting. It was far more human. Perhaps that was part of why Trevelyan relied on her spymaster, though.

"You will find yourself freer to wander Skyhold now," Leliana continued. "I have instructed my agents to allow you to visit the library, the garden, and the chapel. You've shown yourself to be obedient while unguarded in the undercroft in Dagna's care, and I believe much of her work will no longer require your immediate presence."

"I... thank you."

She nodded. "Now, off you go. Fisher will stop by tonight to take your response to the Inquisitor, should you have one."

He did, but there was so much that could not be said, both because of the limits of what a raven could carry, and for some stab at discretion. That afternoon it took him a solid hour and three attempts to fill a small slip of paper - odd for him, since he'd written so many letters as Corypheus' general, but this was different. She was different from anyone he'd ever known.

_Never been to Wastes. Sounds interesting. Would say Ven looking for magic artifact but dwarves don't have magic, so not sure. How many enemies? Are you safe? Am well but Skyhold is proper prison without you. S._


	7. Chapter 7

Trevelyan returned to Skyhold after nearly a month, feeling like she'd be shaking sand from her clothes for about that long. The cool mountain air refreshed her after the long, tiring journey, and she was glad to be back for more reasons than one, eagerness cutting through her exhaustion as she crossed the bridge into the courtyard that evening.

"Hey, boss," the Iron Bull said quietly, gesturing with his chin toward the yard behind the tavern. "Crowd at eight o'clock. Out of place. Might want to check it out."

Sera frowned. "Little weird, yeah? Why wouldn't they be inside where it's warm?"

"Not enough room for fisticuffs inside." Dorian shrugged. "That's the usual reason for congregating outside a bar, yes? Or perhaps it ran out of ale. Now that would be tragic."

"We'll find out." Trevelyan ran a hand through her hair and headed in that direction. There were about thirty people in the yard, in a rough circle, a few on the outskirts muttering in concerned voices and hooting jeers from the inside. She pushed through them to see what had the people gathered, and it felt like her heart stopped.

Samson was on the ground, blood trickling from his nose, dirty and wounded. A few young men Trevelyan didn't recognize stood around him, laughing.

"Come on, filth," one of the men spat, kicking Samson with a sickening thud. "Too scared to fight back? Coward. You know how many good men died 'cause of you?"

"By the Maker..." Cassandra breathed, drawing her sword.

" _Enough!_ " With a flick of her hand, Trevelyan cast a gleaming barrier around Samson. He lifted his head, the look on his bloodied face a startlingly open adoration. She slammed Bloodwake's staff blade into the ground and sent a violet cloud surging upward around the attackers; they shrieked in terror, cowering on the ground, while the rest of the crowd's murmurs turned to cries of "Inquisitor!" that were half relief and half fear.

The others got the crowd under control, and Sera was arrow to bowstring in two seconds and stood over Trevelyan as she knelt beside Samson.

"Are you all right?" she demanded. "What happened? Where are your guards?"

Samson spat blood onto the ground beside him and struggled to sit up. "S'fine," he mumbled. "Let... I let... them. Can't fight back... have me... executed."

"Maker's breath," she cursed. Blood was seeping through his shirt near his shoulder blade and crystalizing in the fabric, hissing with heat.

"I wouldn't get too close to that," Dorian warned, lightly catching Trevelyan by the arm. "I'll fetch the surgeon."

"And Dagna," Trevelyan insisted. "I need her. Now." Her fingers trembled as she tried not to touch Samson.

"What in Andraste's... Inquisitor!" It was Cullen's voice from behind her, followed by the clink of a dozen armored feet. "Are you all right? I didn't..." He trailed off as he saw Samson.

"How did this happen, Cullen?" Trevelyan demanded, standing and facing him.

His brown eyes were wide. "I don't know. I saw some commotion so I came down to see what was going on."

The surgeon arrived with two attendants, who lifted Samson onto a stretcher and took him off to the infirmary. Trevelyan caught his gaze for one moment before his eyes rolled closed; she wanted to follow, but could not yet. The guards Cullen had brought dragged away the still-frightened men who'd been the perpetrators.

Cassandra stepped beside them. "The people say they saw those men approach Samson's guard. Coin was exchanged, and the guard left. Then they started attacking." She shook her head. "I understand the anger, but this is unacceptable."

"You're certain Samson did not antagonize them or anything of that sort?" Cullen frowned.

Dagna raced past without a word or glance to any of them. Trevelyan bit her lip.

"Other than the matter of who he is, no, he did not," Cassandra replied. "And the fact that he didn't resist them is proof enough."

Trevelyan put her hands on her hips. "We cannot allow behavior like this. I want those guards and the attackers held responsible. And where is Leliana?"

"Val Royeaux," said Cullen. "She left two nights ago. I'd expect her back within the week."

"Wonderful."

"Inquisitor..." Cullen ran a hand through his hair. "I loathe the man, but this... I'd not have expected our people to do this, especially as it seems he wasn't fighting back. I thought we were better than that."

"We are," Trevelyan sighed. "We have to be."

"Inquisitor?" She turned to see Dagna, her gloved hands red past the wrists."Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Trevelyan felt the blood drain from her face and followed Dagna into the infirmary. Samson's injuries did not seem as bad as she'd thought now that most of the blood was washed off, but he was unconscious, and the wound on his shoulder blade was seeping and glinting with red lyrium.

"The lyrium pooled under his skin is turning solid now that it's exposed to the air," Dagna said. "I can cut it out now that it's solid, but bits must have broken off and spread in his bloodstream. I mean, he's got it in liquid form in his blood already, but -"

"Please, just tell me," Trevelyan interrupted, rubbing her temple. "What does this mean?"

Dagna frowned. "Bad things. Those bigger solid bits could latch to anything inside him and grow. The dissolved lyrium in his blood is killing him slowly, but now, well, it cuts off a lot of time."

Trevelyan felt her throat tighten. "What can we do? Do you have anything ready to treat him?"

"I can try, Inquisitor. It's not as thoroughly researched and developed as I would like - I haven't quite been able to replicate and increase his natural resistance. If I only had more resistant blood - but the only other people I know resistant to it were mostly wiped out by that crazy Lord Seeker, right? Or... wait."

 _Oh._ "There's Cassandra." Her one-time jailor and now companion for months, trusted and fierce and righteous, and Trevelyan had no idea how to convince her to help without telling her the truth.

"Yep." Dagna frowned. "Oh darn it, I could have been experimenting on her all this time! Wonder if she'd let me have some of her blood? It must be really pretty."

"I'll talk to her."

Samson stirred, sat up too quickly and grunted at the pain of it. The haunted look in his eyes softened as he saw Trevelyan. "So, welcome back," he muttered wryly.

"Maker, Samson." She leaned down and kissed him, foolish, angry, and he inhaled sharply in surprise. The surgeon was preparing dressings and had her back turned, but Dagna saw, and Trevelyan turned to see her nod once with a glint in her eye like she'd solved some great mystery.

"You should go," Samson hissed under his breath, like every word hurt to speak. "You... were probably going to, anyway, but you definitely should. Salvage this. Don't risk anything else on my account."

He was right. "That's not your decision," she said. "I can't stay, no, but I will do what needs to be done."

"Ygraine..." Soft, barely a whisper.

"You're going to be fine," she insisted, like saying it could make it true.

Trevelyan forced herself to leave, and found the yard outside the tavern much sparser than before. Cullen was still around, but she had no wish to talk to him then. Instead she caught the arm of the first guard she passed. "Please tell Seeker Pentaghast to meet me in the chapel at her convenience, if you would."

"Of course, milady Herald."

 

The candles in the small chapel were out, so Trevelyan lit them with a flick of her wrist and knelt on the rug before the great crumbling statue of Andraste. She couldn't remember the last time she'd sung the Chant or prayed. The Maker's presence was something she'd only felt as a girl, when she'd thought her future meant the Chantry or the templars. That was before she'd gotten angry at a few bullies bothering a friend of hers, and unconsciously sent fire shooting around them, leaving them encircled and screaming. A very public way to find out one was a mage, a fact that was received with cold horror and disgust by her family.

The prophet's serene face seemed to look down at her, inscrutable as ever.

_What is wrong with me?_

Trevelyan squeezed her eyes shut as she felt tears start to sting them, only succeeding in pushing them out to roll down her cheeks. She was a fool. To look for understanding in an enemy, to look for the warmth her heart so desperately needed in a man she'd known was dying, one she could never have in public, one that she found herself caring far too much for... She could save his life from the lyrium only to have him killed by a mob, or an assassin. She could lose everything if people knew, fracturing the Inquisition she both loved and resented.

A sob wracked her, and Trevelyan lowered her head further, not wanting to look at Andraste. "Please," she whispered. "Please. I can't do this anymore. Please, help me. I can't..."

She trailed off into silence.

"Ygraine?"

She quickly turned her head to see Cassandra in the doorway, still in her armor, sword at her hip. The Seeker's eyes went wide.

"Are you all right?" She stepped forward hesitantly. "Forgive me, I was told you wished to meet me here, I did not intend to interrupt you or - is there anything I can do?"

Trevelyan sniffed, ashamed and embarrassed. "You've done nothing to need forgiveness for. I... I am so stupid, Cassandra."

"What? You are nothing of the sort." Cassandra frowned and extended her hand, helping a shaky Trevelyan to her feet. "Why would you think that? The mob tonight was not your fault, if that is what troubles you."

Trevelyan shook her head. "No one will blame me because no one will care much who's to blame." She laughed once, bitterly. "It's not like its victim matters, right?"

"It does matter." Cassandra raised an eyebrow. "We all responded to it. If it did not matter to us, we would not have helped get it under control - we would have let them do what they wanted with the templar."

"I sat on that damned throne and sentenced him only to observation by Dagna and our general custody. I didn't sentence him to death."

"...he was already dying because of the lyrium. We've known that. I'm not sure what -"

"Yes, eventually. Years from now, maybe. And Dagna's working on that and..." Trevelyan sighed sharply, her tone growing agitated. "What happened tonight changed that to a death sentence, soon. Maybe a month. I don't know. Solid tiny pieces of lyrium are in his blood and he's going to turn into a horror. Or a behemoth. I don't - I can't watch that happen."

"Why?"

"Because." She felt like she was falling off a cliff. "He's like me, rejected then chosen then in circumstances beyond his control. I want to be merciful to him, to save him, I really do. I have to."

"We hunted him for a very long time. It is not unusual for that to turn to a sort of obsession. It has happened to Seekers more than once."

"That's not what this is."

Cassandra was silent for a moment. "I saw the look on his face, when we stopped the mob. I would not have believed that was the same man as the one we fought in the Arbor Wilds. Something has changed, perhaps because of the Maker's mercy you have shown to him, perhaps something else. But he looked at you like you were Andraste herself come to save him."

Trevelyan lowered her head, hoping that Cassandra would think that, that the whole thing was a matter of faith, not... whatever it was. "I know."

"But what is it you need from me? Reassurance that you are not foolish, that you are following the Maker's will?" She shrugged. "I don't know if I can give you that. If you feel you are, in this, it is not my place to correct you. Have you spoken with Leliana?"

"Yes. She... advocates strongly for the Maker's mercy and unconditional love."

"She does. Perhaps more than I would say is truly just, but no matter."

Trevelyan took a deep breath. "What I need is your help. Dagna is trying to prolong his life, to stop the solid lyrium, but her research hasn't gone quite as far as she would like. Evidently she needs more blood that's lyrium-resistant."

"Oh." Her brows raised. "And as a Seeker, I am immune to red lyrium's transformation, so my blood would qualify."

"Yes. Cassandra..." She was trying not to beg, but her desperation crept into her voice. "I would not ask for this if I didn't truly... it would mean a great deal to me."

Cassandra nodded once, decisively. "I will do it. For you, Ygraine. I respect you - you have become a friend, and I can see how heavily this weighs on you."

"Thank you," Trevelyan breathed. "Please, if you'd go see Dagna at the infirmary. She can tell you when and what and... thank you so much."

"I will. And you are welcome. I will do what I can."

Cassandra left, and after she shut the door Trevelyan sank to her knees in front of Andraste again, folding her hands so tightly her knuckles turned white.


	8. Chapter 8

Samson lost all track of time and consciousness. Pain like shards of glass in his veins, dull ache punctuated by sudden sharp agony, and red, red, _red_. Nightmares seemed to never end, until he was no longer sure whether he was awake or not. He dreamt of Kirkwall's streets, of shivering in alleys, spat upon and kicked. He dreamt of his templar brothers and sisters, corrupted and broken and hoping for a twisted future they would never live to see. Of Corypheus, cruel laughter, and bony fingers turning innocents to dust.

Of Ygraine Trevelyan, the Wilds' sun gleaming on her stormheart breastplate, flame and ice and the violet dank touch of death on his skin. Ygraine crushing him and ripping his flesh from his bones until his throat tore from screaming. Ygraine beneath his greatsword, sobbing as his blade fell. Ygraine torn apart by a mob, her own people rending her limb from limb. Ygraine in Cullen's arms.

Sometimes he would see her in what he hoped was reality, her face pale and tired, standing by his bedside but always at arms' length. He saw glimpses of others - Dagna, the surgeon, Leliana, Seeker Pentaghast, and even Cullen, once. Then he stopped seeing Trevelyan at all. Eventually everything started to lessen, blurring into darkness, brief moments of red fading into nothing, pain dulling. He supposed that meant he was dying.

One day, or afternoon, or whatever time meant anymore, he found himself waking up almost like normal. He was in some room in the infirmary, a puddle of sunlight on the white sheets over his body. Dumbly he lifted his hand and held it up in the sunlight, watching fragments of dust scatter, frowning at small scars he did not remember.

A shriek and clatter startled him and he turned his head to see Dagna in the doorway, spilled cocoa steaming at her feet and a tankard rolling across the floor.

"You're awake!" she squealed. "Finally! It's been days! How are you feeling? Okay? Hungry? Lyrium....y?" She trotted over and poked him in the shoulder. "How long have you been awake? Nobody told me."

"Few minutes," Samson croaked, struggling to sit up.

"Here." Dagna handed him a cup of water from a side table, and he drank greedily.

He cleared his throat. "What do you mean, days? Been forever. Weeks. Hasn't it...?"

"No, silly, it's only been about a week." She frowned solemnly. "You were very sick. The lyrium moved a lot faster than I expected. It took two blood donations from Seeker Cassandra - had to give her a lot of cookies and cocoa to make up for that. Drained a lot more blood from you than I would've liked, too. Plus I used my special concoction that I've been working on. Your blood's a little better than it was even before those people attacked you. I wish I'd been there, I would've taken them out," she added darkly. "But you've been out of it since the operation."

"Ygr... the Inquisitor..." he began, hesitating.

"Oh! I'd better go get her. She told me to tell her immediately if you woke up. I'll be back!" Dagna jabbed her finger into his arm again. "Don't move!"

"Won't." He sighed, stretching his limbs. Reaching up to touch his shoulderblade revealed a bandage, but no lyrium jutting through his skin that he could tell. He rubbed his chin and found his usual scruff grown much thicker, and he sighed again, idly watching the dust in the sunlight.

In a few minutes the door opened again and immediately his heart was in his throat. It was Trevelyan, red hair pulled back from her forehead, grey eyes wide and cheeks pale. She practically shut the door in Dagna's face and swept across the room.

"Samson." She stopped just shy of him, arms half-out. "I - can I - I don't want to hurt you."

His chest ached as he reached for her. "You won't."

Trevelyan perched on the edge of his bed and flung her arms around him, holding him tightly, her face buried against his shoulder. Truthfully it did hurt, but he accepted that as a more than fair trade for her touch. He wrapped his arms around her and rubbed her back, the images from his nightmares flattening and fading.

"Thank the Maker," she whispered. "I thought that... I was so afraid that you..."

"Hard to kill." He sighed, startled at just how content he felt. "Like any decent pest."

Trevelyan laughed and lifted her head, "You are not a pest," she said, punching him in the arm very lightly. "You're wonderful."

He snorted. "I still think you've got your ex-templars confused."

"No, I don't." She kissed him gently, then finally let him go, taking his hand in hers instead. "There's less red in your eyes now, you know. Dagna's a miracle worker."

"She said something about Pentaghast?"

"Oh. Yes." With one fingertip Trevelyan traced the tendons along the back of his hand. "She gave some of her blood. Without it, I don't think that... well. I'm very glad she agreed to do it."

Samson frowned. "Why would she do that? What did you tell her?"

"It's fine. She thinks my concern for you is a religious one, and that you're finding a renewal of faith here." Trevelyan shrugged. "She may suspect otherwise, but then again she's very straightforward. She would confront me with her concerns if she had them."

"The only person it'd be more dangerous to let find out is Cullen," Samson insisted. "She's a Seeker. _The_ Seeker. She'd hang me."

"She's my friend. Leliana and I could talk her down, if it came to it. Besides, I had no choice."

"You did, though."

"No." Trevelyan traced a finger along his jawline. "I had to save you. I had to take the risk."

He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, to no avail. "So, what, my life is worth more to you than being Inquisitor?"

"What would you have done, in my place?"

Samson thought of his nightmares, and squeezed her hand. "I... I'd have done the same," he admitted quietly. _I need you._

"How far we've come," she murmured, stroking his cheek. After a moment, she sighed. "I'd just summoned my council. I can't stay, but I'll tell Baker to send you to me when you feel up to it."

"All right." He kissed her goodbye, physically felt her absence as she slipped out with a last soft smile. "Dagna?" he yelled afterward.

The dwarf peered around the corner of the door frame. "You called?"

"Could you... see about getting me some food? Need to get my strength back."

Dagna grinned brightly. "Of course! Now, where did I leave those cookies...?"

 

In a few days, Samson was feeling quite a bit better, but it was not a clandestine meeting with the Inquisitor that he was first summoned to. Four soldiers arrived in the infirmary one afternoon and ordered him to go with them. He only shrugged and followed, surprised to find himself being marched into the great hall. For a moment he felt a twinge of nerves, but the spiked throne was empty, and instead the soldiers took him down a corridor, through the room he'd met Trevelyan alone in for the first time, and down another crumbling hall to a huge set of doors. One guard pushed them open with a loud creak, and another practically shoved him inside before letting the doors shut behind him.

Immediately he knew this had to be the Inquisition's war room, with a large table in the center spread with maps and little markers, great leaded windows streaming light into the space. His breath hitched as he saw Trevelyan, leaning on the edge of the table with her back to him, but she was not alone. Cullen stood across from her, gloved hands resting on his sword hilt, his lip curling slightly at the sight of Samson. With them was a polished-looking woman Samson assumed was Ambassador Montilyet, and a ginger dwarf woman he did not recognize, who was turning an owl-shaped marker over in her hands.

Trevelyan straightened and turned, moving over along the table's edge to make room for him. Her lips were pressed tightly together and she said nothing, barely even looking at him.

Samson cleared his throat. "Think I might be in the wrong room...?"

"No," Cullen said curtly.

"My apologies," the ambassador said with a quick glance at Cullen. "The guards were not given an explanation as to why you were to be brought to us, so this must be confusing for you. I am Josephine Montilyet, the Inquisition's ambassador." She gestured to the dwarf. "This is Lace Harding, lead scout and agent, filling in for Sister Leliana now that she has been made Divine Victoria."

"Good to meet you in person, Samson," Harding said, her tone guarded rather than sarcastic. He felt like her bright green eyes could see straight through him, and he shifted his weight.

"Charmed," he muttered.

"And of course you know Commander Cullen and Inquisitor Trevelyan," Josephine added.

"Of course." Samson glanced at Trevelyan, but she was still gazing at the map. "Now, why am I here?"

Harding nodded. "We've received word of a group of red templars in the Emerald Graves, searching for some kind of elven weapon. A cursed greatsword, supposedly."

"They massacred half of Fairbanks' people at Argon's Lodge," Cullen interrupted.

"Yes," Harding continued. "We need to know anything you know about this sword, where it might be and why they're looking for it."

Samson frowned. "Hardly needed to drag me in here for this. I've been in Skyhold for months. I've got no idea what any remnants of my people are up to."

Cullen leaned forward. "One of the men from the tavern says he saw you receive a message in the undercroft from one of Leliana's people. His belief that you're still involved in red templar activity is not an isolated one."

"If you can explain what that man saw," Josephine added, "it would help clarify this. It seems implausible that Leliana's people would transport messages from red templars into Skyhold."

"Not knowingly," Cullen corrected.

"It wouldn't be the first time she's been betrayed, though," Harding said. "It could happen."

Samson shrugged, brain ticking through a hundred options and possibilities of how to salvage the situation. "The man's a drunken lout trying to save his hide. Of course he'd come up with some kind of story to try to justify what him and his friends did."

"He saw you receive a piece of paper and burn it when confronted," said Cullen. "Three others support his story."

"And you believe it? It doesn't even make any - "

"Believe them over you?" Cullen's lip curled. "Any day."

"So drunkards who like to gather in mobs and attack people who aren't fighting back are reliable witnesses." Samson snorted. "The cream of Skyhold, surely."

"And from what moral ground can you condemn them?"

"Enough!" Trevelyan's voice cut through the room like glass. "We need to know what he knows now, not to fight over petty matters that no one can prove either way." She rubbed her temple and turned to Samson. "Do you know anything about this matter, or not?"

He could not meet her eyes. "No."

"Look at the Inquisitor when she's talking to you," Cullen snapped.

"It's all right, Cullen," Trevelyan said quietly.

"No," Samson repeated, forcing himself to look at her. "I have heard rumors before about such a sword, when I was in the Emprise. The Sulehvin Blade. Rumors, that's it. No one ever discussed trying to find it. And it hardly seems like a sword would make any difference now. They're defeated."

"Would you lie to protect your people, if you did know?" Her face was a calm mask, her tone reserved, and Samson knew then he wasn't talking with Ygraine, not in this room. Here, she was the Inquisitor, and could be nothing else. It frightened him.

"Would you?" he asked.

Trevelyan smiled coolly, and Samson could feel Cullen seething, wound up and ready to strike. The lion of Skyhold, indeed - Samson supposed if Cullen was a lion, then he was a hound, lean and hungry-eyed and desperate.

"Of course I would," said Trevelyan. "Is that a confession?"

"No." Samson frowned. "I honestly know nothing about it. And you know what I think?"

"Please, we're all ears," Cullen grumbled.

"I think these men aren't even looking for a damned blade, or anything else. I think they're mad animals in the last throes of red lyrium, striking at whatever's in front of them until they're put down."

"We'll keep that in mind." Trevelyan turned away from him. "Guards?" she said, raising her voice. The soldiers returned from the hallway, and Samson had no choice but to follow them. As he left, he barely heard Cullen's voice from behind him.

"Are you all right, Inquisitor?" he was asking.

The closing door muffled Trevelyan's reply.


	9. Chapter 9

That night Samson was returned to his own quarters instead of the infirmary. He had no interest in sleep, no interest in anything, and he paced restlessly. Men who'd followed him had devolved into true monsters, and here he was, in relative comfort, involved with the damned Inquisitor herself. Even that felt like it was unraveling, with more people coming closer to finding out, consequences piling up like stones on a grave.

Not once did he consider trying to end it. She was his lyrium, now, and the only one who'd given him what he'd never even dared to hope for, the one who made him feel things he hadn't thought he was capable of. Without it, his life now would be unbearable.

He wasn't surprised when a knock came at his door. It was one of Leliana's agents - Baker, if he remembered right. She said nothing, only gestured for him to follow, and he did. Across the courtyard, into an unlit passage and a cellar he'd never been in before, and up a long staircase. Baker sent him ahead of her and was gone before he noticed, leaving him to ascend the dusty stairs alone. It opened up onto a sort of platform, scaffolding and a few worn templar banners beside it, creeping down into the darkness. Above him up another short staircase he could see firelight, so he went toward it.

He found himself in a large room, warm and well-furnished, with massive stained-glass windows, a roaring fireplace, and a canopy bed. At first he saw no one, then he noticed a dark silhouette on one of the balconies. His footsteps creaked on the floor, and she turned and came back inside, shutting the tall glass doors behind her. Samson stared at her openly, heartbeat quickening. She was wearing some kind of simple slip of plain ivory cotton, dark red hair a little mussed by the wind from being on the balcony, and he thought she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"I'm sorry about -" she started to say, but in a few long strides he had her in his arms. He kissed her as gently as he could manage, his hands in her hair, and she relaxed against him. Her lips were soft and she tasted of sweet wine and he adored her, foolishly, desperately.

"Don't worry about it," he murmured when he finally stopped for breath. "Do whatever you have to. I understand."

"I didn't think you knew about it, but everyone else wanted you questioned, and I had no excuse not to. Cullen - "

"Damned Cullen," Samson sighed, frowning. "He likes you a little too much."

"What?" Trevelyan's brow furrowed. "No. He just doesn't like you."

"Mutual."

"Hey." She caught his chin lightly between her thumb and forefinger. "You don't need to worry about him or... compare yourself or whatever it is you're doing in your head. I'm here with you, aren't I?"

"Hard to believe." He leaned down and kissed her neck, holding her more tightly to him, possessiveness making his fingers clench in her slip's fabric.

She kissed the soft spot by his ear. "Believe it," she whispered, then shook her head. "I don't want to think about him or anything else. I want to have a nice night like a normal person."

Samson snorted. "Hope you know what that is, because I sure don't."

Trevelyan laughed, and when he lifted his head to look at her he felt his chest tighten at her bright smile. "Hopefully it involves wine, because that's what I've got." She slid out of his grip and walked over to her desk, where she already had a bottle and two glasses out. "Dorian's recommendation," she said as she poured. "Also, advice? Don't drink anything the Bull gives you, unless you want to feel like your insides are being scoured by acid."

"Somehow I don't think that's a situation I'll find myself in." He took the glass from her, summoning a half-smile. "Don't think your friends would like me much."

"I'll work on them." She took a sip of her wine, and he followed suit, the rich, heady sweetness better than any wine he'd ever had.

"The Tevinter's got good taste," he admitted.

"Doesn't he? I feel like alcohol and poor gambling decisions are his specialties. I could get him to like you."

Samson laughed; it felt foreign. "Because those things are correlated...?"

"No!" Trevelyan punched him lightly in the arm. "Let me see... Sera will be a problem, but when isn't she? She likes me, though. Made me cookies. Terrible, terrible cookies, but they were thoughtful. Cassandra, too, but she understands some of it, and she loves romance novels so maybe she'll have some sympathy or... something."

"Sorry, what? She what?"

"I know, right?" Trevelyan leaned toward him conspiratorially. "Some of them, Varric wrote."

His eyes widened. "Starting to think this wine's a little too good."

She laughed, then leaned up and kissed him, grabbing his shirt to pull him closer to her. He rested his hand at her waist and it hurt to feel happiness, like he was stealing something he'd never been meant to have, something that couldn't quite fit within him. He wanted tell her, but didn't know how or whether it was the right thing to say, or what the right thing to say was.

She pulled back a little, her brow furrowed, her hand on his cheek. "I really care for you, Samson."

He felt words tumbling over each other and getting stuck in his throat, thought of what Leliana had asked him on the rookery's balcony. He took a deep breath. "I want... I want to be honest. I don't know what I'm doing. Never felt... never had anyone..." He sighed. "I don't know what these things are supposed to feel like." Slowly he slid trembling fingers through her hair. "I think I'm in love with you."

He felt foolish as soon as he'd said it, and lowered his head. That had been the wrong thing. "I'm sorry," he said quickly, ashamed, feeling blood rushing to his cheeks. He had no right, he should never have -

"I love you, too," she whispered. She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him, hard, and he almost forgot what to do in his shock.

He finally kissed her back for a moment, then pulled back and shook his head. His eyes stung. "You shouldn't," he choked out. "Maker, I need you to, but you shouldn't."

Her jaw tightened and she pushed him backward until the backs of his legs hit the edge of her bed. He didn't resist as she shoved him back onto the bed then climbed up alongside him and straddled his prone frame. He could scarcely breathe. "I do," she said. She leaned down and kissed his neck, her teeth scraping his skin, her body pressed against his, her fingernails stabbing into his arm. "Nothing's going to stop me."

A noise half between a groan and growl caught in his throat and he grabbed her hair, pulling her head up so he could look her in the eye. The expression on her face sent fire down his spine. "Good."

He kissed her, discarding any attempt at gentleness, reveling in the lustful violence of tongues and teeth and too much force. She caught his lower lip in her teeth, hands pulling at his belt, and he inhaled sharply. He rolled her off of him, startling her, and propped himself up. She reached for his trousers again and he pinned her arms above her head with one hand, a smile tilting one side of his mouth at her little grunt of protest. Forcing his breathing to even out, he slid his free hand beneath her slip, her back arcing and eyes rolling shut as his fingers moved against her.

He was rough but he was patient and attentive, enjoying unraveling what precisely she liked, studying her reactions with something like wonder. The way her forehead creased, the way she bit her lip, her soft gasps and moans. "I love you," he whispered in her ear, trying out the way the words felt on his tongue. Alien, intoxicating as lyrium, as her hips rose off the bed to meet his touch.

Her muscles jerked, her head tossing back with a soft, throaty cry, and as always he was amazed by the fact that it was him who'd brought her this. Lightly he rubbed her hipbone as he gave her a moment to catch her breath, but she wriggled her wrists out of his grip and shoved his shoulders, knocking him off-balance and onto his back.

"Your turn," she said, pulling her slip off over her head and yanking at his belt again. His heart pounded against his ribs as he slid off his shirt and she tore off the rest of his clothes. She straddled him, smiling wickedly and biting her lip as she took him in. Gripping her hips, he tried to relax and enjoy the feel and sight of her as she moved. Sometimes she would lean down and kiss his neck, allowing his to hold her as she moved more slowly, and other times she turned nearly frantic, head thrown back. He was overwhelmed emotionally and physically, gritting his teeth to hold on. Finally she tensed around him then trembled with release, and he could do nothing but follow her, sensation shooting through him in sharp heavy waves, leaving him spent and shaking and breathless.

She slid off and collapsed next to him, one arm resting above her head, catching her breath. He rolled onto his side to face her, sighing contentedly.

"I don't want you to leave tonight," she murmured. "I want to wake up with you."

"I... I'd like that." He traced circles along her cheek and collarbone with his fingertip. "So, was that part of the whole 'evening like a normal person' thing you were planning, or...?

Trevelyan laughed. "...Maybe." She rolled over with her back to him, snuggling up against him, grabbing his arm and putting it around her. He held her close, breathing in the scent of her, heart so full he thought it might burst.


	10. Chapter 10

Trevelyan woke up nestled against Samson's chest, listening to his deep, even breathing and steady heartbeat. Even after he woke, they put off his leaving for as long as possible, finally sending him off down the back staircase with a kiss and a tight embrace.

Life around Skyhold was uneasy, with the continuing chaos in the world in Corypheus' wake and all the matters that needed her attention. Leliana was officially Divine and was no longer around, although her agents still were, and were only nominally under Harding's command. Trevelyan liked Harding very much, but she wasn't Leliana, and certainly didn't know about her Inquisitor's secret.

Trevelyan stole moments with Samson when she could, doing her best to keep them as covert and out of suspicion as she could. As she had so many times before as Inquisitor, she wished for the simplicity of an ordinary life, or at least one that would keep her personal choices out of the concerns of thousands of people.

She had a feeling that Dorian suspected she was involved with someone by the way he'd smile at her sometimes, but he never asked or explained himself, just said "Oh, nothing," with a typical twinkle in his eye. Trevelyan wanted to confide in him, but had not worked up the nerve to do so. The Bull was former Ben Hasserath. He had to know something, but he had not said anything to her either. The rest were too busy with their own matters, or too focused on the task at hand when they were outside of Skyhold, to worry about what their friend and Inquisitor might be up to.

One grey late afternoon, Skyhold drenched in a downpour, she put on a hooded cloak and went to a room in a still-decrepit tower. Samson was already there, a few raindrops still in his hair, and he slipped her cloak to the floor without a word and pulled her to him. In moments her back was against the wall, her body relaxed against his as he kissed her slowly, gently, one of his hands on the side of her neck and the other at her waist. She let her mind drift, focusing only on what she could feel.

She didn't hear the door open, but she did hear the clatter of a memorandum falling to the floor and the ring of steel sliding from its sheath.

"What are you doing to her?!"

_No._

Trevelyan barely had a chance to pull back and Cullen had grabbed Samson by the shoulder and slammed him against the wall, blade at his throat. "You would dare?" Cullen growled, livid and disbelieving. "You'd dare assault the Inquisitor, after how generous she's been and - "

"Cullen!" Trevelyan caught his arm, panic making her heart pound.

"Maker, are you all right?" He glanced at her, his eyes wide. "Did he hurt you?"

"No, you don't underst - "

"Enough, Commander," Samson spat. He was angrier than she'd seen him in a very long time, eyes narrowed, his rough voice ice-cold.

"Samson," Trevelyan hissed.

Cullen shoved him back harder, the tip of his sword nicking Samson's throat. "I ought to kill you. To think I'd believed this sort of thing was below you - and to the Inquisitor, you - "

"Maker's breath, Cullen, stop! That's not what this is! That's not what happened?"

"He won't hurt you again," Cullen said, concern and rage on his face. "You don't need to def - "

"I'm not! Just listen to me!"

"Yes, Cullen, listen to her," Samson added, unable to resist a faint sneer. "Better to hear it from her than me, hmm?"

"Damn it, Samson, you're not helping!"

"Not helping what?" Cullen drew his blade back a fraction, confused. "What are... Inquisitor, what..."

"He wasn't attacking me." Trevelyan's hands were shaking. "And I'm not lying to you out of fear or whatever it is you think. It's the truth."

"Then... then what..." Cullen looked drawn up bowstring-tight, staring at her.

"He and I are..." Trevelyan glanced at the floor. This was the absolute worst scenario and she had no plan in her head for what to do.

"What? What are you saying?"

"Involved," she forced out. "Together. I..."

The color drained from Cullen's face. "What?" His voice was flat. He looked at Samson. "What?" he said again, louder.

Samson started to say something but seemed to think better of it and only shrugged.

Cullen let him go and sheathed his sword mechanically, his expression blank.

"Cullen..." Trevelyan took a breath. "Please, I - "

He spun and punched Samson in the stomach with the full force of an armored fist.

" _Cullen!_ "

Samson doubled over, leaning against the wall for support, and Cullen turned on his heel and walked out.

"Are you okay?" she demanded of Samson, grabbing his shoulders.

"No," he wheezed. "Neither of us is okay now. We never were."

"Maker's breath," she cursed. "Do _not_ move. And don't follow me."

She charged out the door after Cullen, onto the rain-drenched battlements. He hadn't gotten far, standing there like a statue with his back to her, clenching and unclenching his fists. The rain ran down his neck, pattered on his armor.

Trevelyan felt awful, guilty and sad and terrified. "Cullen," she began, "please..."

"Why?" She almost couldn't hear him over the rain.

"I... "

"How could you? That... thing. That monster." He turned to face her. "You know what he's done."

"Yes, I do, but he's not a monster. You don't know him."

Cullen laughed once, bitterly. "I knew him long before you did. He's not worth the air he breathes."

She shook her head quickly. "You don't know him _now_. He could be a perfect saint here and you wouldn't even recognize it, because you're too blinded by - "

"By what? Reality? Maker's breath, Ygraine." He looked stricken. "I've followed you, trusted you... you helped me at my weakest. You remind me of my sister, for Andraste's sake. Worried about others, strong but with a kind heart." Cullen ran a hand over his face. "How could you do this?"

"You can't understand." Trevelyan's eyes stung, her body shaking with emotion and cold. "You told me that if things had been different, you could've been one of his men, and that's why you hate him. I think you hate him because you're afraid you could've been him."

"No." Cullen turned away, his voice lowering. "No. I could never do what he did to his men."

"What he said at his trial is true. He wanted to - "

"I don't care what he wanted! Maker... you fought him. We hunted him together. Things you'd say... I knew you sympathized with him, but this... it's sick."

"No!" Trevelyan slammed her fist onto the edge of the battlement, and it crackled with lightning beneath her blow. "There's goodness in him. Kindness, like you saw long ago. He loves me." Her voice cracked.

"He's deceived you, taken advantage of your mercy. And even if somehow, in some backwards world - even if that were true, that doesn't change what he is and what he's done."

"It changes everything." Her tears welled over, trailing down her cheeks with the rain. "I love him. Maker damn me, I do."

Cullen stared at her in silence for a long time. "And how do you expect me to respond to this madness?" he asked hoarsely.

"Just - just ignore it. Please." She took a step closer, trembling. "Please, please just leave it. No one else can know. I'll do anything you ask, just please let me have this one thing."

The door several paces behind her rattled and opened, and half a dozen guards came out, dragging Samson by the arms. Samson's head was bowed.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, fear tightening her throat.

"Locking him up again until we decide what's to be done about this," said Cullen.

"No, no, you can't do that." She grabbed his arm, desperate. "Please, you can't tell - "

"I'm not going to." Cullen wrenched his arm from her grip. "Keep him in custody for his protection," he said, raising his voice for the soldiers. "In the jail, not his quarters. We need to reevaluate his situation since his presence has become a security risk."

"I am the Inquisitor," Trevelyan hissed. "I overrule you."

Cullen sighed. "This is for your good. We need to talk and I need to think about - "

"It's not your decision!"

"Ygraine." Samson's voice from behind her made her turn around, her anger melting into sadness and desperation. "Let him. Doesn't matter."

"Yes it does." Trevelyan strode toward him, clenching her fists to stop herself from touching him.

Samson's blue eyes were dull with resignation. "Pacify the bastard," he said, just barely loud enough for her to hear. "You can work something out later. And I told you, don't jeopardize yourself on my account."

"I need you," she whispered.

"More like the other way around." One corner of his mouth quirked in the faintest smile.

"Take him away," Cullen ordered.

The guards obeyed, and Trevelyan forced herself to stay rooted in place, thinking of mobs, of Vivienne's advice, of the spikes on her throne and the hole in her chest. She was startled as Cullen unhitched his fur cloak and fastened it around her shaking shoulders - it was heavy with rain but warm on the inside.

"I'm sorry," he said. He looked older. "I meant what I said, before the battle in the Wilds. You are a great leader - and a friend. What I ask is that you think about this, and what's right, and what's best. I... if you truly have feelings for that... that man, you're right, I can't understand it. But one thing all templars learn is this: duty to the people you protect must come before personal feelings, and even at the expense of them. Easier said than done, but..." He sighed deeply and ran a hand through his hair. "Consider it," he said as he left. "For everyone's sake, and your own."

Trevelyan sank to her knees on the battlement, draped in Cullen's cloak, and buried her face in her hands as she let the tears about Samson and herself and everything since the conclave take her.


	11. Chapter 11

Samson sat on the floor and stared at the back wall of his cell, listless and defeated. They brought him a little lyrium with his dinner, and Dagna visited to give him treatments, but Trevelyan did not come. He supposed he'd essentially told her not to - to save herself as best she could - but he was still in a starving, crawling agony as overwhelming as any withdrawal he'd experienced. Every time the great door opened his heart would quicken, and every time it would drop again in dissapointment. He lost track of time, mind sinking into doubt and loneliness and shame. It seemed that he couldn't touch anything without destroying it.

The door creaked and shoes clicked lightly across the stone floor, with a silken swish and a faint scent of embrium. "Perhaps I should not waste my time, since you seem to have given up already," said an austere, cultured female voice. "And here I'd thought you were stronger than that."

Samson turned to see a dark-skinned woman with a hand on her hip, her chin tilted up. He'd never seen her before, but judging by her appearance and manner he could tell who she must be. "Madame de Fer," he muttered.

She smiled with a warmth that did not reach her eyes. "Well done."

"Why are you here?" His brow furrowed. Trevelyan had barely mentioned her, so it didn't seem like they were friends; he suspected this woman was not truly friends with anyone.

"Patience, my dear." Vivienne tilted her head. "It has come to my attention that our beloved Inquisitor is in a bit of a quandary. She is undoubtedly one of the most powerful figures in Thedas, able to command a fervor that even the Empress cannot. I am able to recover from anything, but if her star were to fall, it would be an inconvenience."

He stood, keenly aware of his plain appearance and shabby surroundings, though he suspected anyone would feel that way in contrast to the icy enchantress. "Because it'd hurt the Inquisition's reputation, and yours."

Her smile remained neatly in place, like a mask. "You've demonstrated remarkable selfishness up to this point, and now you've brought yourself to a place where you have only two choices."

"Which are...?"

"You can die." She glanced at the back wall of the prison, at the decrepit open section in the distance howling with cold wind. "They say that most people black out before hitting the ground. I expect you'd feel little pain - but you are well-acquainted with pain, are you not?" She let her smile fade into a sharp seriousness. "Or, you could allow yourself to be exiled far from here, as had been suggested at your trial. Rumor says that you may be retried, and that is a plausible sentence. I also hear the Commander is advocating that you be transferred to custody in Kirkwall."

Samson swallowed hard. "He would."

"Naturally, although he seems to be showing you more mercy than one might expect. Loyalty to the Inquisitor, no doubt. A simple but noble-hearted man. Unlike you, my dear." Vivienne folded her arms. "Removal from Skyhold and from all contact with the Inquisitor, one way or another, is the first choice. A sacrifice for a beloved cause, like any good soldier. Is that what you are?"

"No," he whispered. He wanted to say he'd do anything for Trevelyan, but he couldn't bear the thought of having her taken from him forever, of his life losing all hope again. Vivienne's suggestion of death was preferable to that - but he had not come so far and fought so hard to throw himself away. He'd have done it long before. "Never been that kind of templar."

"Good." For a moment her smile crept up to her eyes. "Then you must take the second choice."

"I'm listening."

"You must humiliate yourself. It is a well-known rumor that Sister Nightingale's first major act as Divine Victoria will be a series of pardons - an illustration of the Maker's mercy, as she sees it." Vivienne raised one slim eyebrow. "While I may disagree with many of her philosophies, and with her appointment, we all shall certainly use it to our best advantage."

Samson nodded. "She told me she might pardon me."

"Indeed." Vivienne took a step closer. "You must make yourself worthy of it. Even after it comes, it will be ignored if you do not seem to deserve it. You will not survive a second mob, or you will be exiled. But if you act humbly enough, repentant enough, demonstrate devotion toward the Maker, then Skyhold will not devour you."

He snorted. "The Maker?"

"Comprehension, my dear. I said _demonstrate_ , not _believe_. It is appearance that matters and that will save you." She unfolded her arms and rested her hands on her hips. "If the Inquisition can convert Corypheus' great general and bring him into the Maker's service, that gives power to it and its Inquisitor. If you are dilligent enough, you may even find yourself in a position in its army."

"Under Cullen's authority?" He bristled at the thought.

"Is your wish to live and your desire for the Inquisitor greater than your hatred of him?"

Samson lowered his gaze. "Yes, but - "

"Then you will submit yourself to whatever you must. You will be spat at, beaten, insulted, and ignored, and you will allow it to happen. Your behavior outside the tavern has already placed you on that martyr's path, and if you continue, you can solidify that in the hearts of the people."

"Beg pardon, madame, but I've been treated like shit for most of my life. I am tired of it." He felt ill, resentment prickling up the back of his neck. "You don't know what it's like."

"No." Vivienne smiled. "And if you persevere, neither will you. Your apparent faith and turning the other cheek will prove your sincerity and will lead you upward. Would you not like to know freedom, perhaps even to walk at the Inquisitor's side in the heart of Skyhold, the greatest of sinners turned saint and inspiration to all?"

"And a lie." A cage like the one Trevelyan struggled in, not freedom at all. But if he could be with her...

The enchantress laughed. "Everything seen with a cursory glance is always a lie. If you are squeamish about that, perhaps you ought to jump after all." She smoothed her silver silks and stepped back. "Goodnight, my dear." Before he could say another word, she was gone.

Samson slid down onto his tiny cot, and rested his head in his hands.


	12. Chapter 12

By the time the soldiers came, he was ready. A dozen of them escorted him across the courtyard, familiar irons on his wrists, followed by people's whispers. He tried to listen to what they were saying and was surprised that most of it was confusion rather than hatred.

"Samson!" It was Dagna's bright voice, and she pushed through his guards before they had a chance to react.

"Ma'am," one said, hand on his sword hilt, "step back, please."

"No." She drew herself up to her full, diminutive height. "You _will_ let me talk to him for a minute, or I'll see you made into one of my test subjects. Commander Cullen supports my research, didn't you know? It's because of my work that this man was captured in the first place. So," she reached up to poke him in the breastplate, "why don't _you_ step back."

The soldier raised an eyebrow, then shrugged.

"Samson," Dagna hissed again, turning back to him. "They're all in the hall. For you. The poor Inquisitor." She shook her head and lowered her voice until no one but Samson could hear her. "You know she loves you, right? My poor laboratory nug. I've tried my best, I really have. I won't be happy if I went through all that work only to have you killed. Your blood's too pretty to spill."

"Is that what's being discussed?" His pulse quickened. "Execution? For what?"

"I don't know! I haven't heard anybody say it but I'm so nervous that they will! The Inquisitor swings the sword - oh Maker, it'd be worse than that book Seeker Pentaghast gave me." Dagna patted his arm. "But it's unlikely it'll come to that, I think."

"You know, your bedside manner needs work," he grumbled.

"You might be right," Dagna said solemnly.

"All right, come on," a soldier said, pulling him by the arm. Dagna just stood there, frowning as they walked away.

The great hall was packed as full as it had been at his first trial, the crowd whispering and muttering as he was escorted in. Among them he recognized Varric Tethras, the Tevinter mage Dorian, Seeker Pentaghast, the Bull, and the rest of Trevelyan's friends. If anything that made him feel worse. Ambassador Montilyet and Cullen stood on the platform to either side of the throne. Cullen's hands rested on his sword hilt and he looked surprisingly pale and weary, but Samson barely noticed him. Immediately his eyes were drawn to the spiked throne.

Trevelyan sat there, face calm as any statue of Andraste, but her knuckles were white on the throne's arms. She was wearing her full mage's armor, stormheart gleaming in the torchlight, Bloodwake leaning against the throne beside her. Cool and beautiful and fully the Inquisitor. Her eyes met his, but she seemed to look straight through him like he was a piece of furniture, and he felt himself begin to tremble. The soldiers left him a few paces in front of the throne and stepped back, standing between him and the crowd gathered on either side.

Montilyet cleared her throat. "This is rather unusual, but not without precedent. The passage of time and changes in circumstances require a review of custody and situation for Samson, red templar and former chief general of Corypheus the Elder One. This is not technically a retrial - " she glanced at Cullen, " - but is instead a reevaluation."

"The Inquisitor has shown you a great deal of mercy," said Cullen, his tone flat. "The response of the rest of Skyhold has been rather more realistic, considering the blood on your hands. The question is whether your presence here is too great a risk to Skyhold's innocent citizens, particularly in light of the incident at the tavern some weeks ago."

Trevelyan said nothing, still looking at him.

"Is there anything you wish to say, Samson?" Josephine asked.

He took a deep breath. "Has a decision already been made?"

Josephine glanced to her left again. "Not as of yet, no. Several options are being considered."

"Then yes, I'd like to say something." Samson knelt and lowered his head, eliciting a murmur from the crowd. "I've got nothing to say to defend past actions other than what I already said at my trial. What I have are actions since then. I have tried..." He swallowed hard. "I have tried to be as obedient and compliant as possible. I've worked with Arcanist Dagna, and I believe have helped her make some advances in her research, which she'd attest to if witnesses were allowed in this kind of thing."

"Adherence to the requirements of your custody is mandatory," Cullen said, "and not a reason to reward you."

Josephine's brow furrowed. "Are you asking if you may call witnesses to your character?"

"Denied." Trevelyan said it so quietly that Samson almost missed it. Something in him twinged at the sound of her voice.

"Forgive me," he said, "no, I don't deserve special treatment and I'm not asking for it."

He could feel Trevelyan's eyes on him. "Continue."

"Thank you, Lady Inquisitor." He folded his hands together to try to stop them from shaking. "I was attacked by a mob who paid one of Skyhold's guards to leave so they could hurt me. Didn't fight back because..." His eyes stung. "...because I deserved it." Whispers in the crowd. "I'm unworthy of any kindness or mercy. I... I've turned my back on the Maker, but here, I've seen His mercy shown to me. From the arcanist, from Seeker Pentaghast and her willingness to help when I was near death, from L - the blessed Divine Victoria, and..." He closed his eyes for a moment. "...from you, my lady."

"Far more than you deserve," Cullen interrupted sharply.

Samson choked down his resentment. "For once I can agree with you, Commander."

"You do not wish for the Inquisitor to show mercy to you in her judgment?" asked Josephine, incredulous.

"On the contrary, I beg for it." He looked up, heart twisting as his eyes met Trevelyan's. "I hadn't felt the Maker's presence since my templar training, until I came here. His mercy and His... His love..." _your love_ , he thought, vision blurring with tears, "it has changed something in me. It's the only true hope I've known. I wish to serve, to try to make amends, find some kind of redemption for whatever's left of my soul." Tears welled over for the first time in years, and he let them. "I beg of you, don't send me away from here."

The hall was silent. Trevelyan sat stone-still for a moment, then rose to her feet. He lowered his head, afraid to look at her, ashamed of his reaction regardless of whether it served the purpose Vivienne had suggested or not. Her footsteps echoed as she walked toward him, stopping an arm's length away. She leaned down slightly and gripped his chin between her thumb and forefinger, lifting his head to make him look at her. Samson swallowed hard, staring at her through tear-blurred eyes; her expression was a perfect unreadable mask. He felt pathetic and powerless. He wished that she'd do something, anything, other than be the reserved Inquisitor - especially since if he failed, this could be the last time he'd ever see her.

Murmurs from the crowd.

Trevelyan let him go, and he exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. She turned on her heel and returned to the throne, sitting back down like she'd been made for it. "The Inquisition has made its judgment," she said in a bell-clear voice that rang through the hall. "Months ago. I see no reason to amend that judgment now."

Cullen glanced sharply over his shoulder at her, jaw clenching, but said nothing.

Josephine looked at him and then to Trevelyan. "It's been suggested that the prisoner be transferred away, even for a temporary period, in order to better address the disorderly elements here. Kirkwall was suggested."

A snort from the crowd that Samson was fairly certain had come from Tethras.

"And when he returns," Cullen said almost too quietly to hear, "the same... issues will continue."

"All the more reason to keep the prisoner here," said Trevelyan, turning her cool grey gaze to Cullen. "Our people will continue to adapt as they have to others. Alexius, Servis, the rest. They have lived and worked here to the glory of the Inquisition, as will Samson."

"Inquisitor..." Cullen's tone hissed with a low warning. He had the power to reveal the truth about Samson and Trevelyan at any time, if he wanted, and the two of them knew it. Cullen half-turned his back to the hall and seemed to say something to Trevelyan, but Samson could not hear it. His brain clicked through the possibilities, their number lessening like a noose tightening around his throat.

Movement at the upper corner of Samson's vision caught his attention, and he glanced up to see Vivienne at the corner of the balcony above the throne. She tilted her head, her features invisible as she and her horned headdress were lit from the windows behind her.

He could strike the blow himself. Control it. Turn the situation like one would turn any battle.

_Maker._

"I have not been entirely honest." Samson's voice was thick and rougher than usual. Cullen and Trevelyan both turned to him, and he felt the crowd's eyes like insects' stings boring into him. "I must confess that it's not only the Maker's mercy that has ministered to me, that has convicted me. It is your Inquisitor herself." Whispering. _Careful_. "She's like Andraste herself, holy and righteous and... everything I have never been. The Maker has conquered my soul since my arrival in Skyhold, but my heart..." He trailed off, losing his nerve and the words to say, and hoped that the crowd could fill in the blanks with sympathy.

Their whispering turned to louder murmurs. Trevelyan did not react. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Pentaghast cover her mouth, and Dorian hold out his open hand to Varric without turning to face him, like he was expecting payment for a bet.

"Well, shit," the dwarf muttered.

On the balcony, Vivienne nodded.

_Sweep, turn, press the advantage._

Cullen's eyes narrowed. "Your insolence is - "

"I... please forgive me." Samson lowered his head, trying not to clench his teeth in disgust at having to say that to Cullen. A humble martyr. _Maker damn me_. "Shouldn't have... spoken out of turn. I've..." He let his voice drop. "I've no right."

Cullen looked like he was trying hard to restrain himself, his jaw tightening. "No, you - "

"Inquisitor Trevelyan?"

Everyone turned to see a man in the hooded armor that marked him as a scout standing at the edge of the crowd at the throne end of the hall.

Trevelyan raised both hands and gestured to the room. "We're in the middle of a proceeding...?" The tiniest hint of frustration and strain crept into her voice. "Are you new, ser? Give your message to Harding and -"

"The message concerns this proceeding, my lady Inquisitor," the scout shrugged.

"Maker's..." Cullen rubbed his temple and waved his hand at the scout, signalling him to hand over his memorandum. He skimmed it as the crowd shifted, rustled, and muttered.

"Ah..." Josephine looked a little flustered. "We will continue in one moment."

Samson glanced up to see that Vivienne was gone.

Cullen's face went nearly white, and Trevelyan frowned and held out her hand for the message. Samson felt his pulse rise, daring to allow himself the smallest hope. As Trevelyan read, her cool mask slowly slipped away until her face was faintly flushed and she held a trembling hand to her mouth. Without a word she handed the message to Josephine, who read it with an expression that turned from confusion to surprise.

"Tell them," Trevelyan croaked.

"I..." Josephine looked up at the crowd. "It is a missive from Divine Victoria."

People glanced at one another and their chatter quieted.

"The Divine says that... her message is of the Maker's unconditional love and mercy for all, even... even the greatest of sinners. She... has issued Chantry pardons for several criminals and traitors, including the exiled Mayor Dedrick of Crestwood, Mistress Poulin, and... former red templar general Samson."

Gasps and murmurs too loud to hear another word from Josephine, and Samson lowered his head, his hands shaking. He'd known Leliana was considering it, and what Vivienne said, but to have it happen... and then Trevelyan could...

He didn't hear her approach and was startled as he saw her boots in front of his line of sight. Samson looked up to see Trevelyan standing there, tears in her eyes, her lip trembling.

"Give me the key," she demanded of no soldier in particular, and one hurried to obey. On the platform, Cullen looked baffled, then sighed in apparent resignation as Samson met his eyes. "Get up," Trevelyan ordered.

Samson stood slowly, heart pounding in his ears, Trevelyan's hands shaking as she removed his shackles.

"Skyhold," she said, loud enough to turn the chatter to silence. "Divine Victoria is right. We must have mercy, even on those who do not deserve it in our mortal estimation." She looked at Samson and she was Ygraine again, strong and gentle and real. "Are we not all the Maker's children?"

Murmurs that seemed mostly of assent, although a few people walked out, including a blonde elf Samson thought must be Sera.

"Adjourned," said Trevelyan, and immediately the talking grew in volume and her friends swarmed around her.

Dorian quirked an eyebrow and smiled. "Well well. Interesting turn of events. I was on the edge of my seat. And am now a bit richer, thanks to Varric's poor gambling skills."

"Says the guy who bet against the Inquisitor versus Corypheus," Varric grumbled. "Andraste's knickers, Pavus."

"Indeed."

"Ygraine?" Cassandra's eyes were wide as she glanced between Samson and Trevelyan. "Is everything... I am not certain that I..."

"Not now," Trevelyan said sharply, then sighed. "I'll talk to all of you later. I promise." Without another word she grabbed Samson by the elbow and dragged him through the remaining crowd to the antechamber with the fireplace, where he'd first met her alone.

He felt drunk. "Ygraine - "

"Shut up." She slammed the door and grabbed him by the collar, pushing him into it. "Shut up." Her lips met his, her cheeks damp with tears, and he slid his arms around her and held her so tightly he feared he might be hurting her. Nothing quite felt real. He didn't know what exactly would happen now, but this was hope, a chance, and his heart felt full to bursting.

"Did you know what Leliana was going to do?" she asked when she finally stopped to breathe.

"I... sort of. I knew it was a possibility. Hence the gamble."

Trevelyan punched him lightly in the arm. "I'm going to kill you."

"You tried that once already, and look how that turned out." He tilted his head, a smile finally daring to emerge.

She laughed, wiping away her tears with the backs of her hands. "Shut up," she said again, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him, her fingers lacing in his hair, and he sighed as he let himself get lost in her.

 


End file.
